Michael and Tracy

It’s a few days before Thanksgiving and mere hours before our first community meal and I’ve never made a pecan pie before. So, I do what anyone with any good sense would do, I hit the Internet and looked up what the Pioneer Woman has to say about such things. I need sugar, brown sugar, salt, corn syrup, vanilla, melted butter, eggs and instead of crushed pecans I am using a specially concocted pecan paste. This is not just any pie; this needs to taste like love. If I could have my way, this pie is going to heal some old wounds.

Tracy told me how Michael had grown up in a series of damaging foster homes and his life on the street was just beginning to come to an end when I met him. He had been sleeping out by Emigrant Lake and several other places around town. He had just been diagnosed with end stage throat cancer and just before Thanksgiving a kind stranger had put him up in a hotel for a few months.

As it often happens, I am not alone in my kitchen. “Will you look at that pie?” I imagine she said as she stood a few steps behind my dad in the hospital cafeteria. It’s several decades in the past, but I imagine them near a refrigerated display. Her southern accent must have soothed his frayed and worried nerves as smoothly as the custard like filling inside the velvety-rich pie. My mom had just suffered a heart attack and he was taking a short break from being by her side. They both chose a slice of pecan pie that day, and many years later he would sometimes bring up the taste of that pie and the kindness he felt from that woman. I think about my dad and his story about pecan pie while I bake.

In all those years Michael, the child, remembered having one single birthday cake. All the other foster homes failed to ever make him feel like he was worthy of something just for being himself. Treats were few and far between the abusive moments that filled his young life. I thought about that little boy too, as I stirred and smoothed out the filling into the crust.

Truth be told, until this day I don't think I have ever even tried pecan pie before. I like challenges.

I remember I made a paste with the pecans so that they would be a little easier on a sore throat and the pie made the whole house smell like buttery goodness as it baked.

That first community meal was held inside Pioneer Hall, a little log cabin like structure that sits across from Lithia Park. Volunteers created a warm space inside, where cheerful decorations from local school children adorned the long tables. More tables were lined up in the adjoining room next to the kitchen and platters, bowls and trays of food were put out for volunteers to serve to anyone who was hungry. Aside from traditional dishes such as turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, and green bean casserole, several other mouthwatering foods were served. More than a hundred guests arrived, and Michael was among them. I only had a vague idea of what he looked like, but I knew him immediately. His long gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his eyes were kind as he whispered how much he appreciated the attention. I had the pie all wrapped up so that he could take it back to the hotel room with him. I didn't want him to have to share it. I tried to send as much kindness as I could along with that pie. I hope he felt it.

Soon after Thanksgiving, all the food Michael consumed had to be blended into liquid. We didn’t know how fast the tumors were growing and he and Tracy continued to do their best to fill him with the best nutrition they could access. A few months later Michael lost his fight and quietly passed away in that same hotel room.

Tracy lives in a van in Ashland and struggles to find creative ways to survive. She is an advocate for many unhoused folks in our community, helping them navigate the court system and connecting them to other needed services.

I haven’t made another pie since, pecan or otherwise.